


In Which Aziraphale Enjoys Some Cake, And Crowley Enjoys Aziraphale

by Phoenix_of_Athena



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley Likes To Watch Aziraphale Eat, Established Relationship, Food Kink, Hand Jobs, M/M, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Canon, Semi-Public Sex, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, uuuuh...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-09 05:35:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20514650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenix_of_Athena/pseuds/Phoenix_of_Athena
Summary: Over the years, Crowley has had many fantasies about Aziraphale. And now he's got the angel exactly where he wants him, and the perfect chance to act on some of his long restrained desires.As for Aziraphale...well, he's certainly not complaining.





	In Which Aziraphale Enjoys Some Cake, And Crowley Enjoys Aziraphale

**Author's Note:**

> My first posted Good Omens fic is smut. Ahaha, I can't believe myself sometimes.

The restaurant is small and exclusive, and all the more expensive for it. It is cozy, for all its beauty, and intimate, with white-draped tables that seem barely large enough for one, let alone two. The carpet is thick and oriental, in dark shades of red and brown, and the walls are lined with glowing sconces. Aziraphale falls in love with the place immediately.

“Oh, Crowley, this is very nice,” he says, beaming at his companion, who gives him a quick smile.

“Glad you like it, Angel,” he says, leading them to one of the little tables along the wall, “I thought you might, the first time I saw the place. It’s rather _your_ style.”

“And when was that?” Aziraphale asks as he eagerly reads through the menu.

“Oh, nineteen-oh-six, or thereabouts,” says Crowley, and Aziraphale looks up in surprise.

“You’ve been thinking about bringing me here since nineteen-oh-six?”

“Uhm-hmmn,” says Crowley, his own menu propped up against the edge of the table in front of him, “Took a minor miracle to preserve the place, but if you like it, then it’s worth it.”

He gazes heavily at Aziraphale through his glasses, and Aziraphale can feel his cheeks go pink. Crowley has been _looking_ at him like that all day. It’s the sort of look that makes Aziraphale squirm, and he finds that he needs to clasp his hands firmly between his knees lest he reach across the table to his companion; the sort of reaching that Crowley’s looks inspire are not the sort for public spaces.

“The swordfish looks rather good,” Aziraphale says instead, fixing his gaze on the menu.

“Why don’t you get that, then,” says Crowley, “and some of the Claret to go with?”

“And you, my dear?” says Aziraphale.

Crowley grins at him.

“Figured I’d mooch off of your plate,” he says, “Not as if there’s much room for two.”

“Indeed,” Aziraphale agrees warmly, and a waiter approaches as they look up.

The meal is in fact delicious, and though Crowley does try the swordfish and make appreciative sounds at the taste, he seems largely content to watch Aziraphale eat.

“Oh, have a little more,” Aziraphale insists, looking down at the last bit of fish on the plate, “I know you like it.”

“But you like it more,” Crowley says with that little smile of his, “and half the fun of eating at all is watching _you_.”

Aziraphale nibbles a lip.

“If you’re _sure,_” he says.

“I am.”

“Well, all right then.”

Aziraphale scrapes the last bite of fish through its sauce, and Crowley watches with his chin propped on his hand.

“Dessert?” he asks.

“Oh, I shouldn’t,” says Aziraphale, but he’s already reaching for the menu, and Crowley grins.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says, “I think you should.”

Beneath the table, his hand finds Aziraphale’s knee, and squeezes. Aziraphale responds by brushing a thumb across his knuckles.

“Well, if you insist,” he says a little breathlessly, and orders a slice of chocolate cake.

The cake is rich and dark, with a powdering of cocoa over top. Leaning forward, Aziraphale inhales the smell of chocolate and hums in anticipation. Then, with a little grin, he picks up his fork.

Crowley’s hand slides up Aziraphale’s thigh and dips between his legs as he takes the first bite of his dessert.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale gasps, swallowing quickly, but Crowley just hums.

“Go on eating, Angel,” he says, low and casual, as if unaware of the delicate motions of his fingers. His hand is a tantalizing firebrand against him, and Aziraphale can feel Crowley’s gaze through the dark lenses of his glasses. Aziraphale glances swiftly around, but the restaurant’s other patrons go about their dinner without notice of Crowley’s hand beneath the tablecloth.

With slightly trembling fingers, Aziraphale reaches for his fork, and is rewarded by the gentle press of Crowley’s palm. Shuddering slightly, he scoops another bite of cake and brings it to his lips. 

Crowley leans forward over the table towards him, chin still resting on his palm, and his fingers move delectably beneath the table as Aziraphale scrapes rich chocolate icing from his fork with his teeth. Across from him, Crowley’s tongue flicks, snakelike, across his lips, and the motion of his hand quickens. Aziraphale’s breath stutters; he can feel his face flushing.

“Crowley,” he whispers tremulously, fork shaking in his hand as he reaches for another bite, and the demon leans forward further, so that his cheek brushes the angel’s and Aziraphale can feel the faint touch of his lips against his ear.

“Don’t stop, Angel,” he whispers, voice dark with emotion, “it’s good, isn’t it?” 

Crowley’s breath slides hot against his neck, and he shivers.

“Yes,” he breathes, shifting in his chair to press into Crowley’s hand, “_Oh_, yes my dear.”

Crowley traces a thumb along Aziraphale’s jaw as he pulls away. He’s smirking, just a little quirk of lips, and Aziraphale has to grip the edge of the table to keep from following him across the table to catch him in a kiss. Beneath the tablecloth, Crowley’s hand makes another delicious little motion, and Aziraphale gasps, the fork in his hand rattling against his plate. 

Crowley’s gaze is burning into him, and Aziraphale feels as if he is alight, flushed from head to toe and burning where Crowley’s hand meets him. With the other’s eyes on him, he presses his fork into the dark cake, and lifts it to his lips. His eyes rove over Crowley’s face, watching the minute twitch of his jaw as he slowly closes his mouth around the fork and draws it from between his closed lips. The cake is heavy and sweet, and he can feel where he leaves traces of icing on his upper lip. He smiles as Crowley nearly groans and slides his hand up to the button of Aziraphale’s trousers. 

Skin meets skin in a blaze of heat. Crowley’s fingers wrap around him tentatively at first as Aziraphale meets his eyes, and then more firmly into movement, drawing gasps from Aziraphale as he grips the table all the harder to stay upright.

“Crowley,” he says, breathless and demanding, “take _off_ your glasses.”

He does, sliding the sunglasses off his nose and slipping them into his breast pocket without removing his eyes from Aziraphale’s face. Aziraphale drinks in the golden gleam of them, and with a shaking hand, slides his fork again into the diminished cake. Crowley’s eyes are locked on Aziraphale’s mouth, watching his fork waver as the angel pants. His hand slides at a quickening pace, nails catching against Aziraphale’s thigh, and the fork slips from Aziraphale’s hand. It clatters against the plate as Aziraphale claps his hand over his lips, muffling what might be a high gasp or a stifled scream. 

Crowley’s hand moves hot and steady as he bows over the table, the demon’s other hand catching the damp hair at the nape of his neck and stroking gently. Slowly, Aziraphale’s shudders taper off, and he raises his head.

His face is flushed, blue eyes startlingly bright against the blush, and completely unconscious of anyone who might see, he surges across the table to catch Crowley’s mouth in a crushing kiss.

“How long,” he whispers against Crowley’s lips, “how—how long, how long have you been imagining this, Crowley?”

“Oh,” says Crowley, licking a smear of icing from his bottom lip, “this particular variation? Only since nineteen-oh-six.” 

**Author's Note:**

> uuuuh, guys, i've never written anything even remotely smutty before in my life. i can't believe i did this a;lsdfkj  
i...i always imagined my first lemony fic would be something more...vanilla...not something like this, what the fukc (this is not my usual M.O., guys,,,, i usually just write cute family fluff and angst)


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